


The Reverie

by cosmotronic



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, Hand porn, Jack and Jill Went Up the Hill, Smut, Subby Cupcake Holtz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 01:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11243340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmotronic/pseuds/cosmotronic
Summary: She won’t sleep.  She’s on edge, and she knows why.There’s a curl in her gut, familiar.A touch, craved.





	The Reverie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigerlo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerlo/gifts).



> For cheering me on, and since you asked so nicely.

 

She tosses her head back, arching against the pillow. Her teeth catch in her lip, seizing the moan and pushing it back into her throat.

Swallows the sound. Swallows the shame.

But she’s so close, so close.

She pulses hard around her fingers buried deep. Not so deep as a lover could touch, not deep enough to brush against her soul. But she knows her own body well enough to imitate the push and drag of another, to imagine her own intimate knowledge as their skill.

Her teeth release her lip, torn and bloody now as she cries out.

Sobbing. Just a little more.

She curls, rubs and throws herself to her wicked desires, the basest of sensations.

Her body pulls at her and warmth fills her palm and she breathes her fantasy into every shudder of release and gasps along with each frustrating wave of her orgasm, _Erin_ , _Erin_.

 

* * *

 

Her.

And her.

A single touch to set a sequence, inevitable.

“Hello, who are you?”

“Holtzmann…”

She pulls her glove off and then, ever so briefly, they are skin to skin. It’s just a gesture, a handshake and a bent lip and a tiny electric current arcing between their fingertips, but still.

“Erin.”

For an instant they are one and a part of her is lost.

 

* * *

 

It’s late, she knows; her world is quiet. She lies awake and stretches her ears into the stillness, strains to catch a note or a voice or a reminder. The air carries nothing to her beyond the usual low hum of the city.

She huffs a loud breath for nothing else than to break a noise into the quiet, presses her hands hard against her eyes and counts the stars and sparkles behind her closed lids.

There’s no reason why she shouldn’t, so she lifts her fingers from her eyes to test the flush on her cheeks, to trace the outline of her lips. Then down her neck to rest a moment, five spread out across her throat, five clenched tight about her pendant.

Her chest rises and falls a little more heavily, her heart thuds an extra blow against her ribs.

She won’t sleep. She’s on edge, and she knows why. There’s a curl in her gut, familiar. A touch, craved.

Her hands drop further, slow and meandering across her tank top. Past swell and curve and flat stomach, to stroke circular patterns on the tiny strip of flesh exposed above the waistband of her shorts. She follows the elastic, flirts with it.

And exhales, not quite a name.

 

* * *

 

She notices Erin’s hands from the very start, notices the long fingers. Long and slender, like the rest of her.

When their hands brush together accidentally, or sometimes purposefully, she can feel how smooth the skin is beneath hers. Smooth and unblemished and uncalloused, so unlike her own scarred and roughened digits.

She finds further excuses to touch. Helps Erin with her pack, or her work, or her sorrow. Takes a box of lab equipment from Erin’s struggling arms and their fingers brush and neither says a word, but the electricity sparks again.

Erin touches back, gentle and often, a squeeze on her arm or an incidental pat on the back of her own hand.

It’s new and it’s exciting and she doesn’t understand, but she wonders what it would be like to have those fingers curved about hers forever, locked together, their harsh and soft contours intertwined.

An odd warmth fills her and she weathers a strange tug in the left of her chest.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t think, her body working to the practised instinct of a thousand lonely nights.

It’s sudden, an almost manic series of movements to echo the haste of a lover desperate to feel. She shoves at her shorts and pulls at her top until they are tossed away and she is naked in the dark.

Naked and ready and so very willing, but there is no relieved and earnest weight upon her, no firm and loving touch to grasp at her and pull her close, so she slows.

Sinks back into her sheets, and breathes, and remembers.

 

* * *

 

She gives Erin the Swiss army knife on a whim, desperate to impress. It’s an odd token to match her odd affection and she cannot yet judge Erin’s ease with her oddness, her loudness, _herself_.

And it’s a statement her heart offers out before her head is ready, but she does not regret it.

The gift is a precious thing to be held tight and loved. Erin seems to know this, and meets her oddness with fondness. Holds the knife tight between her delicate fingers and loves it with her light touch.

She watches the play of the tools from across their lab and notes that it’s an unthinking thing; Erin has busy hands, just like her own. But the movements are more than a bored fidget. They are precise, sure and quick and set to a clever pattern.

A skilled caress, she thinks, and a dark ripple of want passes through her at the thought.

 

* * *

 

She’s got one hand on her breast, now. Cupping, pushing, her rough thumb pressing over and against her nipple until it stiffens and sharpens and the deep bass of her heart plays against her palm.

Her fingers pinch closed. Once, deliberately, and she shivers and she hisses. An answering song pulses between her legs, a warm burst roused from her core. She grips harder, tugs and tugs again, and her body lifts into it and her breath sounds out harder into the night.

Her other hand meanwhile drums a little counterpoint on her thigh, then at the apex of her body’s bend she slips boldly across to brush through curls.

She can feel the warmth so close, so near to her fingertips, but she lingers a moment, imagines a tease and another dancing touch.

 

* * *

 

She can’t tear her eyes away, but at least she can slide her gaze to refocus on the whiteboard if Erin should turn, should challenge her stare.

More and more often lately she watches Erin at work, sometimes to the detriment of her own.

There’s just something utterly captivating about those fingers holding a marker, the letters and lines of the equations forming like the paint strokes of a masterpiece as Erin’s hands dance across the board.

A pause now in the easy flow, a fingernail tapping against the board, rat tat tat to break the spell.

It shakes her from her reverie, and she throws a typically flirtatious question into the gap between them, close enough to their usual banter to pass unremarked.

“You stuck, hot stuff? Need a, mm, hand?”

She tries not to notice the way one long digit strokes along the board beneath a particular string of numbers. The way the pointer stops, soft pad of flesh hovering a fraction from the surface. The way Erin seems to consider and suddenly leap to her choice, furiously swiping at the erroneous marks.

“Hmm?”

Erin’s finger is blackened, blemished, rubbed absently on her pant leg.

She follows the motion with a wandering eye, parts her lips again.

“Oh. Nothing.”

 

* * *

 

She breaks, dipping over and across her heated flesh.

Circling low, through arousal slick and desire warm on her fingertips and she hums and curves her lips in a closed smile. Pushes gently against her entrance, a promise for later, before swiping through the wet and bringing her hand up to her clit.

She moves with purpose, two fingers rubbing slow then quick, up and down and back and forth, settling on a regular, almost systematic caress for a time until the flesh is a swollen and firm testament to her lust. Her smile widens to a rictus, a gritted grin and she pinches hard, flicks a nail in a cruel experiment and her whole body takes the pain and shakes only a little against the torture.

But she is just one, and she is so alone, and the wrenching need and the image of the other in the eye of her mind is more than her straining body can bear.

And she willows before the torment. She whimpers and it’s a weak acquiescence, an allowance more than an offering and her hand flies to her mouth to stifle her submission.

 

* * *

 

They are eating dinner, and she wants to canonise and then she wants to martyr whoever invented sticky ribs. Because she’s never seen anyone eat such a messy food so beautifully and so sensually before.

The others are there, and her own excessive mountain of sustenance lies before her, but she pays little heed. Watches only the display in front of her, front row seat to a seminal performance.

Erin’s doing it on purpose, there is no other explanation.

Holding the crescent between forefinger and thumb, as little contact with the sticky sauce as possible, her other fingers curved away from the morsel. Nibbling, humming little sounds, placing the remainder down gently on a napkin-covered plate.

And although the pink tongue licking over parted lips is distracting, beguiling, it’s the way Erin slowly raises her sticky finger to that tongue that makes her own lips drop open. The way Erin licks away the dark smudge of sauce, sucks the finger into her mouth to the knuckle.

Removes it with a pop. Catches her eye, raises a brow.

“Mmm. S’nice.”

She can only blink and swallow and flush as that freshly-licked finger gestures towards her own untouched plate.

“Not hungry, Holtz?”

She’s _starving_ , and she knows that Erin knows it.

 

* * *

 

Total surrender eludes her, the release skitters from her; she’s not quite there.

She rubs herself harder, harsh and rough with abandon as she tries to will her fantasy into weighted reality, chases the sensation and the dream.

Her body bends and she pushes her hips down against her hand. Pushes against all the force of her imagination and twists herself into the powerful picture, as though it’s not her own fingers painting their strokes so desperately.

She needs it. Aches for it.

She twists, whips her head on the pillow, feels the sweat sticking skin to cotton. It’s suddenly too hot and the closeness and emptiness is too heavy. She gasps and deserts any attempt to smother her sucking breaths.

Grabs at the rucked sheets instead, a pathetic anchor in an airless void.

She needs _more_.

 

* * *

 

The long fingers digging into her shoulders make her jump, the contact unexpected.

It’s not the first impromptu shoulder rub, not the first time Erin has wandered close and pulled her from a hunched tiredness at her workbench, made her blink and consider the clock.

“You’re carrying a lot of tension.”

The imitation is playful, perhaps a test, and she could ignore it.

But not for the first time she weakens under the caress, whether it be carefree or calculated. Passive to the way the tautness is massaged from her, drawn out and shuffled into something else. Another kind of stricture to wrap her stomach, another kind of wire to bunch and coil between her and Erin.

Erin’s thumbs press deep into the knots. She leans into the touch, just enough. Just enough to test a boundary but not attempt a break. She knows not why she cares anymore; Erin is blowing against her own fortifications like a hail of trumpets sounding against Jericho and Erin knows exactly what it does to her.

It's a strong touch, hammer against malleable steel. She melts a little more, reforms a little braver.

Twists her head to look at one hand gripping the meat and bone of her shoulder.

Four fingers and the bumps of bony knuckles and the fine lines and blueness of blood beneath and the neat clipped nails, an inch from her nose. Hands that are not quite as statue smooth and flawless when seen so close, but so very real and an almost sort of perfect.

“Erin?”

It’s a pained whisper. It’s a hoarse declaration of something unmentionable and it’s an unformed question all at once, and Erin’s hands still. A final squeeze, a light pat, then the touch is gone.

She follows, without hesitation.

 

* * *

 

She pushes inside herself.

She’s dripping wet and scorching and tight about her two fingers, tight enough to feel the ridges and soft envelopment of crushed velvet. Tight enough to _feel_.

She doesn’t tease, not any longer.

 

* * *

 

The first time Erin pushes inside her she wants to cry because it is everything she could dream and desire and more.

The touch on her chapped lips and on her sweat-sheened neck and on her heaving breast and on the tender flesh of her inner thigh and across her most sensitive parts is one thing. The attention on her clit, the rub and the press and the cruel pinch is another thing.

But this, two fingers then three sliding into her to the knuckle with little hesitation; this is something else.

Strong fingers thrust and push and drag and curl and she does not know how they find the pressure points of her soul so adeptly, so precisely, but it is though every fibre of her is stripped raw and frayed open deep within her.

And she comes, explosion sharp and without mercy, spilling out about Erin’s touch and spilling out Erin’s name from her mouth, begging, pleading, thankful.

 

* * *

 

She licks herself clean afterwards.

Imagines it's a different set of fingers pushed into her mouth, her tongue a slave and she hums around them.

She can almost hear a voice murmuring low and tenderly in her ear, telling her how beautiful she is like this, how good she has been, how proud she makes her lover.

She shivers at the unheard praise, knowing it is earned regardless.

Her hands drop to her sides, after, and she waits for her heart to slow, allegro to adagio. Waits until the cacophony against her ribs and in her inner ear is gone, echoes of her bliss faded into distant tremor and she huffs out her breath, just like before. She opens her eyes, relaxes her body from blinking lids down, and breathes in the dark. The air is over-warmed and hued with sin and desire. It’s a blanket about her, soft but stifling.

She rolls, picks up her phone from the nightstand. The message is brief, the reply instantaneous, their interplay practised and to the point.

_E?_

_Did you come?_

_Yes._

_Good girl. Twenty minutes._

She lies back, gripping the phone like a tether to that other.

And she waits.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So that particular muse came back with a vengeance, oops.
> 
> Comments, feedback, feed me.
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](https://cosmotronic87.tumblr.com/) if you ~~dare~~ care.


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